The Lonely Hunted
by michael.s.lacy
Summary: In which James Bond bites off more than he can chew. Short and sweet, the twist ending is the whole point of the story.


The Lonely Hunted

By Michael Lacy

_This guy isn't going anywhere._

The city was huge. Bond had spent the previous week exploring it, trying to get a feel for it, and thinking darkly that he'd need at least two months just to familiarize himself with one square kilometer. He had felt more and more lost every day. It was quite a humbling experience for the most well-travelled agent in MI-6.

When Bond's target finally came up for air on the 8th day of Bond's 'paid vacation' in this filthy metropolis, Bond felt confident enough to find his way in a roughly 500-meter radius around his hotel. Surveillance hadn't been a problem; M had had a most cooperative young couple move into the apartment next door; they were trustworthy, but almost giddy with excitement at the opportunity to do a little spying for King and Country. Bond's mobile rang less than a minute after 'Our Mr. Plumb' (as the young couple called him) left his apartment for the first time in two months.

_How could he stand to shut himself in there for so long? _Bond wondered.

_Fear, mostly. And probably with a little help from Netflix. Americans._

Bond allowed himself a smirk as his car whispered to a stop near the parking garage where Our Mr. Plumb left his car overnight. Right on cue, the little red Toyota Bond has been told to expect pulled onto the street. Catching his first glimpse of Plumb, Bond was surprised, in a cruel sort of way, to see that he was rather thin. Bouncing over the curb, the Tercel moved off in the slow sort of way that indicates incompetence rather than caution.

Bond had never had an easier time following anyone. He had worried that Plumb would stray past the edges of his rough, tiny mental map of the area (_thanks, Google)_, but the target seemed quite content to stay within its bounds. Too, Plumb made absolutely no attempt to evade or detect anyone following him, almost disappointing Bond, who had expected that someone cautious enough to go dark for two months at a stretch would at least employ some token tradecraft while on the move.

After five minutes or so, Bond watched the Toyota hesitate and turn left, across three lanes of traffic. _Can a Brit ever get used to driving on this side of the road?_ he wondered inanely, as he watched Plumb drive into an alley between two apartment buildings. Bond had left a comfortable gap between the two cars, and so he had time to pull up to the right. Bond saw some parallel parking spaces free, and one offered a good view across the street and into the alley.

He blessed his luck; this alley was one he had seen during the previous two weeks. It didn't pass through to the opposite street, but rather ended after about fifty yards, hemmed in by a third block of apartments. The alley ended in a square large enough for a few moving vans, and served as a loading bay for the three buildings. Impossibly, his quarry was driven straight into the very alley Bond was planning on bringing him to. To have a little chat.

Bond decided to give it a few minutes. Training and long experience had taught him not to believe in coincidence, and so for a while he wondered if Plumb's entire careless performance had been an actual performance. He consulted the navigation screen, seeing a tiny blip that denoted a GPS tracker taped to the inside of the Tercel's door panel. He smirked again, this time ruefully, as he remembered Felix's apparent glee.

Felix Leiter, a longtime friend of Bond's, was just as patriotic about American cars as Bond was about British ones. They were in fact insufferable car snobs, and they knew it. Bond was enough of a field agent to know the value of anonymity, but the idea of riding around in a garbage American car for God knows how long still hurt his British pride. It was a predicament that Bond knew Felix would relish, and he had been so very right.

Wanting to just get it over with, Bond had sought him out shortly after getting settled at the hotel, and explained the situation in broad strokes. This was strictly unofficial; Felix wasn't 'in,' but as a longtime CIA agent, private detective, and unabashed car-lover, Bond valued his opinion.

Felix's eyes glittered. "You don't just need an American car," he said, clearly enjoying the words as he said them, "you need a _common_ American car."

Bond grinned despite himself. "Precisely."

"Price range?"

"Within reason. Needs to be justifiable."

Childlike disappointment. "Hm. Tailing anything?"

"Tercel."

His eyes glittered again. "So you're saying it doesn't have to be _fun to drive_…"

But in the end, at Felix's recommendation, Bond chose for himself a newish Impala SS. It featured a navigation system which Felix modified to acquire the signal from the GPS in Plumb's Tercel. Also, he had expertly removed exterior trim here and there, and the car itself was white, so the end result looked like a base-model rental.

"Nobody is going to be looking at you!" Felix said expansively, finding much humor in the played-up revulsion on Bond's face as his eyes passed over the plastic spoiler.

Looking down the alley, Bond knew but would never admit that the car wasn't too bad. He admired how quiet the engine was, both inside and out. _Useful, that. Fast enough, too._ He looked at his watch. _Five minutes._ As it always did in periods of waiting before doing something dangerous, Bond's mind rapidly combed over all the information it had about the mission at hand. He fingered the mask in his hand. It wasn't cloth, like a normal balaclava; this one was bendable, matte-black plastic. M herself had handed it to him 9 days ago. Off his mind went.

"There's an inordinate amount of interest in her Majesty's upcoming visit to the U.S."

Bond looked up from the door handle. He had barely let himself into M's apartment. He said nothing, instead he took a little time to think as he walked down the entrance hall to the living room, his eyes roving about the room, but finally sticking on the strange mask in M's hands.

Bond sat on the sofa. "Not the good kind of interest." It was not a question.

There were cups on the table, and M poured them tea as she spoke. "Quite so. It's got everyone a little worried."

He took a sip. "Who's everyone?"

"Everyone over here." She said levelly. "Plus the Americans. They told us before we could find out ourselves."

Bond's face was a mask; he was all business. "How worried is everyone?"

She sat across the table and just stared at him. _Worried enough to bring in a 00._

Bond took another sip. Asked the big question. "Who's interested?"

M looked away, as if composing her reply. Bond realized that she did look rather worried.

"Bond, we don't know. Someone used a library card, of all things, and uploaded a video to the Internet. It's a recording of someone who is possibly, no, probably mentally disturbed, going over Her Majesty's itinerary. Right up until we took it down, the video was quite popular on the usual websites, and we're sure it's in a hundred different ones, being watched by a hundred thousand different people."

Bond raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't this sort of thing always happen before the royal family goes anywhere?"

"He's going over the itinerary _word for word_, Bond. Royal itineraries leak to the public more often than not, but this time we were more positive than we've ever been…"

"…that it hadn't leaked." Bond finished. "So: How, and who?"

"As to how, we've no idea. Not even the faintest. We've investigated everyone who was in the know and come up dry."

"What about who?"

She smiled for the first time. "We're doing a little better on who," she said, and slid a file across to him.

"Mr. Plumb." He said, skimming the first page.

"Cousin of the library card holder. Maybe he used it, maybe it was stolen and he's nobody. In any case, he's got quite a criminal record. Couple of high profile crimes, and somebody with real horsepower always gets him out of legal trouble. Which is strange, Bond, because aside from his possible connection to the video, he really _is_ nobody. He works at a car wash, for God's sake. Even with those high-profile crimes, he was always in a supporting role: the driver, the inside man pretending to be a civilian, et cetera."

"Like a hired hand." Bond continued to read, then asked, "Is it his voice in the video?"

"We checked that. Definitely not. I know this doesn't look like enough to come to you with, but I really called you in because of what happened just recently: he shut himself in."

Bond looked at her over the file. "Why?"

"We went to put a tracker in his car when he was on an out-of-town trip, and our man was caught in the act. Plumb shot him twice in the head, rolled the body into a ditch, and drove home. He hasn't stepped out of his apartment for nearly two months now, which did make our second attempt at placing a tracker rather easier."

Bond was incredulous. "So, he kills an international spy and just… goes home?"

"The thinking is that he just assumed our man was a car thief. There's no reason to think he would know tradecraft, were he to see it. There's also no reason to think that he's particularly bright, either. His high school transcript is in the file."

Bond thought about this. "So he's holed up here?" he asked, holding up a satellite photo of a dirty apartment building.

"Yes. And we want you to have a word with him, and then bring him in."

Bond was looking at a photo of the dead agent. It was taken before the recovery team had moved him. He was face-first in a muddy ditch, a red pulpy crater were the back of his head used to be, with one arm stuck awkwardly underneath him. M noticed a twitch in Bond's cheek. When he spoke, it was with deadly calm.

"…Alive?"

They stared at one another for a moment. "If you can, yes. And Bond, take this."

Bond had quite forgotten she was holding a mask. "What's this?"

"Well, some people in the agency are of the opinion that it'll give you a psychological advantage over there."

Bond stared at the mask, baffled. Suddenly he understood. "You're not telling me that the Americans really believe in that rubbish, are you? I thought that was just a few crazed 'eyewitnesses' on the news, trying to make something out of nothing."

"I know, I know," she said, agreeing with him. "But there's quite a few people, particularly in the poorer and more crime-ridden parts of town, who put quite a lot of stock in this 'rubbish', Bond."

Bond hefted the mask, feeling its weight. "Alright. When do I leave?"

She handed him a plane ticket. "Tomorrow."

At exactly midnight, Bond put on his mask and tapped the communicator in his ear. "Watchdog, this is Green, come in."

A voice from halfway around the world answered: "(static)e read you, Green, this is Watchdog. Authenticate, over."

"It was a bright cold day in April," Bond recited.

"Authentication confirmed, Green. We have good signal on you and the target. You are clear to proceed. Say when go-mission."

Bond checked his Walther PPK, saw that it was good, and stepped out of the car and began to cross the street. "Go-mission."

"Acknowledged. We show you moving toward the target. Godspeed, Commander."

Bond clicked the comm twice in acknowledgement.

Normally, Bond's demeanor when on a mission was one of icy calm, but this time his mind was still riffling through memories as he made his way down the alley. The Tercel was out of sight, around the corner in the loading bay. Bond could hear two voices, both indistinct. He slowed as he approached the end of the alley. _Why can't I stay focused?! _He raged at himself. His mind kept picking on two things, like a dog that can't decide between two bones.

M had gotten worried again as Bond had stood up to leave. A question had occurred to him: "If he's just reading the royal itinerary verbatim, why do we think he's crazy?"

M had looked at her teacup a while before answering. "Because whoever he is, he… he can't stop laughing."

Standing in the alley, Bond slowly began to get worried.

Felix had also looked worried as Bond made to drive off in the Impala. He leaned to look through the driver's side window, his face more full of concern than Bond had ever seen it.

"Bond, you're not going to _kill_ whoever it is you're tailing, are you?"

Bond had his answer ready. He had been thinking about it for the entire flight over. "He killed one of ours," he said coldly. "I may… not be able to bring him in alive."

"I understand how you're feeling, man, but considering where he lives, that's _really _not a good idea."

Bond turned in his seat to get a better look at his friend. "Not you, too?!" he asked, shocked.

Felix shrugged. "I've heard what people are saying, man. That's all I'm saying."

*brzzt*

Bond jerked his head; that burst of static from the comm had been really loud. Had it malfunctioned? _That's all I need._ He tapped it twice to elicit a reply. Nothing. Or was it nothing? Squishing the comm into his ear, Bond thought he was able to hear… wind noise? Maybe breathing? He wasn't sure, but he wasn't about to even try to whisper. His target was a mere ten feet away.

Bond learned that Our Mr. Plumb was deep into a drug deal of some sort. The dealer was explaining, in quite the slimiest voice Bond had ever heard, that 'the stuff' was hard to come by these days, and especially dangerous to sell at night, these days, so of course the esteemed Mr. Plumb, esq., could understand why prices had gone up since the last time he had graced this alley with his presence….

It would have come to blows if Bond hadn't stepped around the corner. As it happened, no blows fell at all.

Now Bond was dressed entirely in black; gloves, boots, all of it. As he came around the corner in his mask, gun still at his side (they were unarmed, it seemed), the look of stark terror on their faces was the most entertaining thing Bond had seen in a long time. The dealer's eyes were like saucers, and Mr. Plumb, to his later shame, screamed like a little girl. Bond raised his gun.

Oddly, raising his gun seemed to have the opposite effect of the one Bond had intended. They both laughed in a sort of relieved chuckle that grew as time went on, as if they couldn't believe how fortunate they were. Bond stayed outwardly impassive, but he was puzzled; he had expected them to laugh at his mask and scream at his gun, not the other way around.

Their laughter started to die down; their bellies were sore. Plumb panted, "You're not him." As if he had gotten just what he wanted for Christmas.

"WHO?" Bond demanded. He knew it was crazy, but he was a little embarrassed and angry.

They marked his accent. "Not from around here, are you?" the dealer smirked. He and Plumb looked at each other knowingly.

"WHO!?" Bond screamed.

And suddenly he heard an American though his comm. It was an extremely gruff, _dark_ voice, and it said one word: "_ME."_

Something thin shot down from the roof above them. Bond felt something on his legs, and looked down just in time to see a thin black cord snake around both ankles before it pulled upward with astonishing force. Bond flipped and smacked his head on the pavement. His vision grayed as he was being pulled upward with incredible speed. Through the haze he could see the ground racing away from him, Plumb and the dealer growing smaller as they looked up at him. Plumb raised his hands to shout and Bond heard, faintly:

"Welcome to Gotham, asshole!"


End file.
